Ornaments of Death (38 page)

“I never did anything like that.”

“I know you'd like to think so, but the reality is that phone and e-mail records don't lie. We have a trail of calls between you and Thomas going back years. You're done, Cheryl. Tell the truth. Get it off your chest.”

“I have.”

Ellis shook his head, his expression communicating that he thought she was pathetic.

“Grover,” Cheryl said, “do something.”

“Let him hang himself, Miss Cheryl. Let him stretch that rope out all the way.”

Ellis held Cheryl's eyes, tightening the vise. “You called Thomas, and he somehow managed to convince you that he didn't have the paintings—yet. Together you planned the trick that got Becca to meet you on Cable Road, thinking that since she'd just inherited her father's millions, she'd decide to pay you off rather than continue to put up with the harassment. When Thomas reported that Becca once again said no way, you lost control. You jumped in your car and mowed Thomas down, rolling his body to the curb and covering it as best you could with the bush, aiming to delay the discovery of the corpse.”

“Everything you just said is fabrication,” she said, her voice pulsating with barely contained anger. “You're trying to twist the facts. I'm the victim here. Me! Don't you get that?”

“You drove into a tree,” Ellis continued, ignoring her question and evident despair, “hoping to disguise the front-end damage. It didn't. We have the videotape from the auto dealer. Desperation led to recklessness. You broke into Becca's room at the institute and her apartment. After you read the article in the
Seacoast Star
saying that Josie was helping us search for the miniatures, you followed her to Boston, to the furniture maker, and back to Boston. One glance at Josie's upbeat attitude when she left Becca's apartment made it clear she'd found the missing paintings. You called her, pretending to be Pat Weston, and arranged the meeting. You zipped ahead on the interstate and got in position. That showed real moxie, quick thinking, and clever planning. I'm impressed. If someone had come along before Josie, all you would have had to do is pretend your car stalled, and drive away. After whacking her, you grabbed her tote bag and headed for the interstate. Probably you pulled over a mile down the road, confirmed the miniatures were there, and tossed the tree limb into the forest.”

Cheryl's face was growing redder by the second. “You can't prove any of this.”

“Sure we can.” Ellis smiled and held up a finger. “One: Motive. Locked.” Another finger shot up. “Two: Means. The tech folks are already at work lining up photos of Thomas's wounds with the photos of your car's damage and checking Josie's phone for fingerprints. You turned it off somewhere near the liquor store.” Up came the middle finger. “Three: Opportunity. Ask your lawyer. Honey, you're cooked. Both cases are about to be closed. Whether or not you'll also be charged in Ian's death, that's someone else's lookout, not mine.”

Detective Brownley knocked, entered, and handed Ellis another folded piece of paper.

Ellis smiled broadly. “It took a little while to get this report because it comes from another jurisdiction, Portsmouth. They have a series of red-light cameras to catch speeders and people who run the lights.” He waved the paper. “Guess what else they caught? You. Coming and going on the road by Prescott's at the appropriate times.”

“This is all circumstantial,” Getty argued.

“Look at her. She's ready to pop.”

Cheryl was rigid with fury.

“What are you going to do next?” Ellis asked, baiting her. “Kill me?”

“I could. Easily.”

“That's enough, now,” Getty said, his hand on her arm.

She shook him off and stood up. “I've had enough. I'm glad Thomas is dead, do you hear me? I'm glad. I may not get the money he owed me, but at least I got revenge.”

“Is that why you did it?”

She clutched the back of her chair. “He lorded over me how he didn't need Becca's help anymore, how he could live off the expectations from his share of Becca's inheritance, how he could wait for probate. He told me to go find another sucker.”

“I'll take that as a confession.” He stood up. “Cheryl Morrishein, you're under arrest for the murder of Thomas Lewis and the attempted murder of Josie Prescott.”

I listened as he recited the Miranda warning, and watched as he led her out in handcuffs, Grover Getty trailing along behind. She looked simultaneously righteous and astonished. I felt ill. I sat for a while longer. The blazing anger that had had me in its grasp for days was gone, and in its wake, all I felt was empty.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Ty and I were sitting in front of the fire, Prescott's Punch in hand. Potatoes were baking, the sweet aroma comforting and rich.

“Ellis didn't need me,” I said. “Cheryl's attempts to sell the paintings never came up.”

“You were his ace in the hole.”

“I guess.”

“How are you feeling about everything?”

“Sad. Concerned for Becca.”

“Did she decide if she wants to come for Christmas dinner?”

“Yes. She does.”

“Good.”

“I'm looking forward to getting to know her,” I said.

He slid his arm around my shoulder and drew me closer, and we sat like that for a long, long time.

*   *   *

Thursday morning, I drove to the local card and gift store and bought festive bags and Santa Claus–themed tissue paper and twirly satin bows, then stood at the counter chatting to Sandy, the owner, while I packaged up my staff's bonus checks. Sandy helped arrange them in a cardboard box for easy transport.

Sunshine glistened off the icicles hanging off the gazebo, shooting sparks of gleaming yellow light across the village green. With Cheryl charged with Thomas's murder, the circumstances of Ian's death resolved, and the miniatures recovered, I felt the familiar thrill of festive anticipation. The lights circling the tall Christmas tree sparkled merrily. The electric candles on the menorah flickered with holiday cheer. Everywhere I looked, people filled the streets, smiling, laughing, carrying bags filled with carefully chosen gifts. A car pulled out from in front of Lia's spa, and on impulse, I grabbed the spot.

Lia agreed to see me, but she had a helper walk me back, and she didn't stand when I entered her office.

“I wanted to apologize,” I said, “for ever suspecting you. I couldn't believe it, not really.”

“You didn't seem ambivalent,” Lia said, her tone cold. “You seemed certain I was involved.”

“I know. I was scared and confused.”

Lia exhaled. “If we're on a truth-telling spree, I'll admit that I can see why you might have thought what you did.” She raised her arm and flipped her hand backward, dismissing the issue. She smiled. “I'm feeling too good to hold a grudge. Don't get me wrong. It hurts—a lot—to think you might have perceived me as a killer, but I do understand how the facts might have looked.”

“Thank you. Why are you feeling good?”

“I never told you—I never told anyone—I petitioned the judge to reconsider the maintenance order. And he did! He ruled that due to the brevity of our marriage and my ex's ability to earn a living, I owe him nothing more. It's over.”

“Oh, Lia! What a relief!”

“The mooch is toast.”

“That's been a long time coming.”

“And I have a second date with a nice fellow. He just moved here from Chicago. He's never been married—he hasn't found the right girl, he says.”

“I can tell from your eyes that you like him.”

“He's different from other men I've been attracted to. He's serious, a technical guy, kind of quiet. He's a financial analyst for one of the big firms. I met him on Rocky Point Singles. He contacted me.”

“That sounds like a perfect fit for you.”

“It does, doesn't it?”

We agreed to meet at Ellie's for lunch next Tuesday. I couldn't wait to hear about her second date.

*   *   *

The luncheon was as good as I'd expected. Perfect food, including Ana's Christmas-themed Fabergé egg cakes.
*
Perfect music from Academy Brass. Excitement and thanks from my staff on seeing their bonus checks, higher than in the past, a reflection of our better-than-expected year. Sasha announced that we'd bought Mitchie Rich's corn cob plates for $2,000, and that he was thrilled. She was estimating an auction sale in the $6,000 to $7,500 range. Gretchen told us we were now an official sponsor of the Rocky Point Little League. But it was Hank who was the star of the show, rolling over and over on his catnip-infused burlap, running after his new catnip mice, climbing into his condo, demanding cuddles.

I sat with him long after everyone else had gone back to work, petting him and kissing him and thanking him for his love.

“You're a perfect little cat, Hank.”

He curled up on my lap, his head resting on his paws, ready to stay for hours.

I carried him back to his basket.

“Merry Christmas, baby.”

I walked into the front office. Ethan was perched against the guest table chatting with Sasha. She was laughing. I couldn't remember ever hearing Sasha laugh.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, a rosy flush coloring her cheeks.

“Hey, Josie,” Ethan said. “I was telling Sasha how much she'd like helping me check my oysters. I think it was the hip boots that sold her on the idea.”

Sasha laughed again, and I smiled, thinking how often opposites attract. An outgoing guy like Ethan might be a perfect match for a bashful gal like Sasha.

*   *   *

I called Becca to ask whether she'd given more thought to my appraising the miniature paintings. She said by all means, adding that she'd love for me to feature them on my TV show. I texted Timothy then and there, and he texted back that he'd be up with his team in early January to film the promo.

*   *   *

Sometimes Ty and I spent Christmas at his place so we could have a fire. This year, though, I felt like sticking close to home, especially since Becca was coming for dinner.

At three thirty Christmas afternoon, I stood in the archway between the kitchen and dining room, surveying the table. It was perfect, set with the elegant formality of my childhood. The linen tablecloth and napkins were snowy white. The Minton china was delicate and fine. The Lunt sterling silver flatware shone. The Waterford glassware gleamed. The stout white candles nestled in the driftwood centerpiece flickered gaily.

The bell rang. I felt an unexpected thrill of excitement. Becca was here!

She handed me a small Christmas cactus with orange blossoms. As I placed it on the ledge above my kitchen sink where it would get northern light and I'd see it every day, I thought of Cathy's decades-old Christmas cactus. Today marked the beginning of a new chapter, one that included family, and the plant would track its progress.

“How is it at the hotel?” I asked as we got settled in the living room.

Becca sat on the sofa across from the five-foot Scotch pine, the same place she'd sat before. I curled up in the same club chair across from her. “Take the A Train,” from Duke Ellington's Christmas album, played softly in the background. The multicolored, star-shaped lights strung around the windows twinkled in the gathering dusk.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” Becca said. “I needed the respite. I ended up staying far longer than I'd planned. I checked out just now, though. Too much time to think isn't good for me. I'm heading back to Boston tonight. I need to get back to work.”

“I understand.”

Ty served us Prescott's Punch in crystal glasses. Becca swirled hers, watching the glimmering light as it flitted across the cranberry concoction.

I turned toward toward the light source, tea-light candles floating in low bowls. The flickering flames made everything glow and shimmer. The silvery tinsel dangling from the tree branches glinted. The ornaments from my childhood, a set of a dozen opalescent glass teardrops; a porcelain pinecone; a Victorian dirigible; and, my favorite, a yellow bird perched on a metal nest. They hung next to the ones Ty and I had bought together, sterling silver hanging picture frames, each containing a picture of us, one for every year we'd been a couple, an annual tradition I cherished. Flecks of light sparked from the silver frames.

“Ethan's been an enormous help,” she said, looking up.

“That's great to hear.”

“To your continued success,” Ty said, gently clinking her glass.

“Thank you,” she said. She smiled as she touched her glass to mine. “I can't tell you how much it means to me to have connected with you, Josie. To have a new cousin! A wonderful new cousin.”

“I feel the same,” I said, meeting her eyes, smiling back.

We chatted easily until the kitchen timer sounded, letting me know that my turkey had finished resting. I left them comparing Christmas Common and Rocky Point, then called them into the dining room after I'd carved the bird.

As she sat down, Becca pointed at the driftwood centerpiece. “That's beautiful. I've never seen anything like it. Did you make it?”

“Yes.” As I began passing dishes, holiday favorites like creamed pearl onions and herbed stuffing and new creations like my cranberry-orange relish, I added, “When I was a kid, every November my mom and I would go to the beach and walk until we found the perfect piece of driftwood. It had to be smooth and silvery gray and long enough, but not too long, and thick enough, but not too thick. Add a little holly, some pinecones, a few winter berries, tie it up with a big red bow, wedge in some candles, and boom—you have a great-looking, custom-made Christmas centerpiece. I restarted the tradition a few years ago.”

“My mother and I used to do something similar. We'd go into the woods and collect pretty twigs and leaves and berries and so on, and weave our own wreaths. I haven't done it since she died. Maybe I will next year.”